Grandfather’s passing was
a whisper—
a final billowing
and undulating
sigh
that drew over our heads
curled in our nostrils
heady and suffocating
mist of ash.
He lived a muted life;
but not for loss of words.
He was penitent;
as if the sound of his voice
would rouse the ghosts
he’d left behind.
And so, our home was
hushed
by six million silent voices.
There was no room
for speech in our home—
quiet tribute
to what he could not forget,
a soundproof
barrier—
vacuum of ash
and all memory.
Pessie Horowitz is a graphic artist and mother of four. She currently lives in Rockland County, New York, and is working on completing a book of poetry.
This article was featured in the Summer 2007 issue of Jewish Action.
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